


Too Late

by FriendlessDetective



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Johnlock if you squint really hard, Not Season/Series 02 Compliant, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, aUS ARE FULL OF PAIN, au of the great game, barely season 1 compliant, is it james or jim i dunno i just use moriarty the whole time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 14:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendlessDetective/pseuds/FriendlessDetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shoot that vest, and everyone goes up. Shoot that vest, and they die, but they’re dying anyway, so what’s the use?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Late

“Then my answer has already crossed yours.”

Sherlock’s gun changes its aim, but everyone in the room already knows where it’s going, already know what he’s doing. Only a glance had been exchanged between John and Sherlock, but they’d come to an agreement. 

Shoot that vest, and everyone goes up. Shoot that vest, and they die, but they’re dying anyway, so what’s the use?

John’s heart is hammering in his chest, hands clenched into fists, breathing labored. Perhaps he should be focused on Jim— Moriarty, he reminds himself, because this is not Molly’s boyfriend, this man is dangerous— but his gaze stay between Sherlock and the vest itself. 

Sherlock doesn’t look at John. His eyes are locked with Moriarty’s. The gun doesn’t waver, but it’s obvious staring at the two which is in control. Moriarty knows what Sherlock is going to do, and no doubt he’s made the same deduction Sherlock had made before. 

Three seconds, and Sherlock pulls the trigger.

The end of the gun lights up, flame jumping a little before going to a steady flame, around the size of a cigarette lighter. Moriarty’s smirk grows as Sherlock releases the trigger, dropping his hand to his side. The gun clatters to the ground and skids across the floor before tumbling into the pool.

The splash is the only sound in the room. 

John can’t believe it. Fake gun. _He came with a fake gun._ And suddenly, he wants to yell at Sherlock, he wants to scream at him because even if John hadn’t been here, what the hell would he do with a _fake gun?_

And then Moriarty starts giggling, a high pitched sound that sounds out of place and sends a chill down John’s spine. 

“Did you really think that would work? That it would fool me?” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Oh, _what_ a disappointment. I thought you were _smarter_ than that, Sherlock.” The smirk widens, and Moriarty’s gaze shifts from Sherlock to John. His gaze makes John want to back up, but he matches it evenly. 

Or, as evenly as he cangiven the situation.

“I didn’t expect it to be so obvious, either.” Moriarty is obviously talking to Sherlock but his gaze never leaves John. 

_The voice crackles in his ear piece, and John can only try and control his breathing. Enough to blow up the whole building, and he’s carrying all of it under a winter coat. Oh God, oh God..._

_“You will do exactly as I say, exactly when I say. One word deviation and the whole place goes up. Tread carefully, Doctor Watson. Sherlock’s fate rests with you.”_

_Oh God, oh God, oh God..._

“What a pair you are.” He doesn’t say anymore, just sighs, overdramatic and theatrical. “Shame to kill you, but that’s the way it has to be.”

John doesn’t try to argue with him, and neither does Sherlock. Moriarty seems annoyed at this lack on response, at this utter resignation to their own death, but his hands raises for something anyway.

Sherlock has moved quicker than he would’ve thought possible. It’s not really even a choice, because as soon as Jim moves, the entire world seems to slow down to let him unravel the moment in its entirety. 

_“And you invaded Afghanistan.”_

_“I had a row with the chip and pin machine.” “Take my card.”_

_“Run, Sherlock!”_

_“I’m afraid you’ve rather shown your hand, Doctor Watson.”_

_“People might talk.” “People do little else.”_

_“I will burn the **heart** out of you.” “I’ve been reliably informed I don’t have one.”_

_**“But we both know that’s not quite true.”**_

And the instant Moriarty moves, Sherlock is moving too, running, because he’s estimated where in the room the sniper is an despite there being multiple guns he knows which one will be shot first. 

But this is not those dumb action movies that John forced him to watch, and even with it figured out a few seconds beforehand, Moriarty’s fingers have already snapped and the gun has already fired, and though Sherlock is moving he knows he won’t make it, not quite. 

John’s head had snapped up at the sound of the gun, and his mouth falls open in surprise when the bullet hits what looks to be his stomach, Sherlock can’t quite tell. 

Too little, too late, Sherlock is beside his flatmate, feeling like he needs to do something, but knowing there’s nothing he can do. John is still conscious (probably on purpose too) and he looks surprised and confused, but not fully there.

He looks scared, and Sherlock recognizes immediately that John’s PTSD has kicked up a notch, and perhaps he isn’t even fully aware he’s here, perhaps this is a bit too much like his shoulder wound. 

Sherlock can really only stare as John’s eyes go from scared, to pained, and then, after what seems like much longer than it should’ve been, blank. 

He ran. Sherlock had tried to get in front of the bullet. _Why?_

_“How would you describe me, John? Resourceful, dynamic? Enigmatic?”  
 **“Late.”**_

A sigh from the other end of the pool brings Sherlock out of his puzzling. 

“As much fun as it would be to leave you to your own grieving, I have business to attend to.” They lock eyes for a moment, and Moriarty tilts his head a little. His fingers snap, and this time, Sherlock doesn’t move. He doesn’t have anywhere to go. 

The bullet does not hit his stomach. There is barely a delay between the time the bullet hits and the time Sherlock is on top on John. The possible two seconds of time he has are sped up by a second bullet to the back of his chest. 

A pause.

Moriarty spins on his heels and heads out, command to clean up the mess unspoken but understand.

Hours later, he receives a phone call. 

_Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive..._

_**Too late.** _

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, I wonder why they had such an easy out for Sherlock and John. I mean, what a well-timed phone call. I think if that had been a real cliffhanger for me, if I hadn't started watching when it was already out, it would've pissed me off a little. 
> 
> And then I realized they needed the easy out, because how the hell else were they getting out alive? 
> 
> They weren't.


End file.
